Velvet Was the Night

by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

  “What’s he doing here if they’re from Monterrey?” Elvis asked, taking a bite of his cake.

  “There is a lot of nastiness going on, Elvis. These reds, they have been talking guerillas and weapons, and do not doubt it, these crazy Jesuits like this Father Villareal, they are eager to see blood spilled. They have been waiting for a spark to light the bomb, for something to make everything go off.”

  “Wouldn’t us beating those students have made it worse, then? That would make us the crazy ones, not them. Unless someone above wanted it to go off.”

  El Mago had opened his lighter and was about to light his cigarette but he stopped, staring at Elvis.

  “You are too damn clever sometimes, Elvis,” he said.

  Elvis rubbed the back of his neck. El Mago finished lighting his cigarette, took a drag, then tapped a finger against his cup of coffee, frowning. “You are correct, that mess did not help one bit. If I had been in charge of the whole operation…but there are plenty of fools who do not know how to handle problems without bullets and liters of blood. That is why I am telling you right now: this operation here, my operation, it needs to be clean and quiet. These are dangerous times to be standing out.”

  “Yeah, I get it. But what’s the priest got to do with the girl? She also with Obra Cultural?”

  “No. This priest, he came here to make friends with all the rabble who are starting up commie associations and groups. All that garbage. The girl is part of a subversive art collective. He met her through that. Before all of this, she was a good Catholic girl. Now he is her confessor.”

  “Couldn’t have been that good a girl if she’s hanging with reds, no?” Elvis said. “Although I guess it matches the color of her lipstick.”

  El Mago grabbed a glass ashtray and slid it to the center of the table. “Do not be overly amusing today, Elvis.”

  “Sorry,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

  “Talk to him, rough him up a bit and give him the treatment. See if he knows where she is.”

  “Rough him? I don’t know—”

  “This Jesuit needs a good punch in the mouth.”

  “I don’t want to beat no priest,” Elvis said quickly.

  “What, now you are a good Catholic boy?”

  Elvis couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone to mass. Long before he joined the Hawks, that’s for sure. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t wary of messing with someone of the cloth or that he didn’t make the sign of the cross when he saw an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Even the fools in Tlaquepaque, with their healing crystals and their chants, believed in something. You had to be a bit afraid of a superior power. Those who weren’t were treading on dangerous soil.

  “I’m not going to hell if that’s what you’re thinking,” Elvis said. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be toasty warm in hell if you go on hitting priests, whether they’re Jesuits or whatever.”

  El Mago gave Elvis an icy look. The Antelope said some of the upper-level Hawks had been trained abroad, with the CIA and shit, to help keep the commies out of Mexico, out of Latin America, and they’d learned lots of interesting and useful tactics. Elvis wondered if it was those folks who’d taught El Mago to stare like that, all frost. It was like staring into an abyss.

  That’s what El Mago was. This damn abyss, sucking you in. This damn fucking force of nature. You didn’t cross him. Not because you were afraid he’d pull out a gun and shoot you, but because he simply had that aura about him. The feeling that this was someone who devoured people, but never got his suit dirty.

  The thing was, he wasn’t always like that. The rest of the time, he was very much all right, even nice. Elvis liked talking to El Mago. He didn’t fool himself into thinking they were friends, but he thought they might be associates. He wanted to do good work for El Mago. Hell, he wanted to make him proud. El Güero had even made fun of him about that, chuckling and saying Elvis wished El Mago would adopt him. That was a crock of shit—first of all because Elvis was a grown man, and second because he’d never particularly missed his stupid father, so why bother trying to find a second one—but it cut dangerously close to the truth.

  He did think El Mago was darn cool, what with his excellent suits and fancy shoes and this very put-together image. He wanted to be like that one day. Only when El Mago looked like this, he wasn’t cool anymore, and Elvis tried to recall what the fuck he was doing hanging out with him.

  “You talked to me about loyalty, Elvis; well, this is what loyalty means. Do not make me think I am wrong about you,” El Mago said, his voice low.

  The voice of a gentleman, which was what he was.

  A dangerous one.

  He was Elvis’s god, but a dark god. The god of the Old Testament, that, as a good Catholic boy, he’d learned to fear.

  “You’re not.” Elvis glanced down, fixing his eyes on the ashtray. “I’ll talk to him, don’t you worry.”

  “Good. I want this done quick, you understand me?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “You do not need to type reports. I will call you.”

  El Mago wiped his lips with his napkin, then tossed it on the table and stood up.

  “Oh, and Elvis?” El Mago said, giving his cigarette one last drag before dumping it into the ashtray. “El Gazpacho is out of the unit.”

  “What do you mean out?”

  “Out. Gone. He did not have what it takes,” El Mago opened his wallet and tossed a couple of bills on the table. “Finish your cake and get your crew working.”

  7

  MAITE STOPPED BY the printer’s shop the next day right after work. She went because she was still holding on to the faint hope that she might get in touch with Leonora and obtain her money. If this proved to be the case, then she could hold off on asking her mother for a loan.

  She couldn’t take the bus anymore. It was a cesspool of depraved monsters. When Maite chanced to get a seat, then she was safe. But if she had to stand, it was an invitation for every pervert in the city to rub himself against her or try to touch her ass. Every female from the age of twelve to sixty-five had to endure the same treatment, and there was no recourse, but Maite at least had the possibility of escape. She had her car. And it was stuck with the mechanic because Maite couldn’t pay her bill.

  Maite had told herself that she would wait and in a month or so she would settle her account with the mechanic, but she was tired of waiting, and she couldn’t be taking taxis to work. It was very simple: she needed to pay.

  Either her mother or Leonora would help her accomplish that. But her mother nagged her about everything, and the mere thought of having to phone the woman upset Maite’s stomach, threatening to give her an ulcer.

  Maite pushed open the door of the printer’s shop and walked in. She had expected to find Rubén alone, like last time, but there was an older man at the register and a teenager. Rubén was stacking boxes on an old, red dolly. He was wearing his overalls and humming a tune.

  “Hi,” she said, waving at the young man. “Hello.”

  Rubén stared at her. He put his box down and came from behind the counter. “Hello,” he said. “You’re back.”

  “Sorry to bother you like this, but I haven’t been able to get a hold of Leonora. I was wondering if you had any other contact information for her. Do you know any other friends who I might talk to?”

  “You mean she hasn’t returned?” Rubén asked, grabbing a handkerchief that dangled from his pocket and wiping his hands with it.

  “No.”

  “What about her sister, what did she say?”

  “She said Leonora wanted money and she wouldn’t give it to her, and that’s the last she heard from her. Look, I wouldn’t be bothering you if—”

  “Rubén, I don’t pay you to be meeting with your girlfriends during your shift. Get those boxes ready. Mr. Pimentel is coming in fifteen m
inutes,” the older man said, resting both hands firmly on the counter and giving the young man a stern look.

  “Yeah, one second,” Rubén replied, raising a hand without looking at the shop owner. His eyes were fixed on Maite. He seemed worried. “How long has she been gone?”

  “She left Friday night.”

  “It’s Wednesday. That’s six days today.”

  “I can count. What about that…that art collective of hers. Would she be there?”

  “Asterisk? Why would she be there?”

  “Rubén!”

  “Yes, one more second,” Rubén said quickly, raising his hand again. “Look, I’m real busy today, but can I drop by your apartment tomorrow night? I’ll ask around Asterisk about Leonora and tell you what I find out.”

  “Fine. At six. I have things to do,” she lied. She simply didn’t want the man knocking at her door at midnight. The super was nosy, and if a man came to visit her late at night and she saw him heading up the stairs with her, she’d be subjected to an interrogation, and she didn’t feel like it. Besides, he looked like a hippie, and she was wary of that. Hippies were all a bunch of losers and marijuanos who gave women venereal diseases and organized orgies; that’s what the people at her office said. Though, to be fair, Maite was curious about the orgies.

  “What’s your apartment number?”

  “I’m right across from Leonora. Three B.”

  “Okay.”

  Rubén headed behind the counter again and began pushing the dolly toward the back of the store. The older man had not shifted an inch and was still standing with his hands planted on the counter, eyeing Maite with suspicion. She clutched her purse and hurried out of the place. Good heavens, what a rude man! But, who knew what Rubén was like. With the plural “girlfriends,” maybe he was always bringing women around. Was Leonora one of his girlfriends? She didn’t remember seeing him in any of the pictures at the girl’s apartment, but then she’d been too busy staring at Emilio Lomelí’s photograph to notice any other men.

  Emilio Lomelí. What a great name that is, she thought, as she evaded a homeless man asking for a coin and managed to board a bus that, mercifully, had an empty seat in the back. She was wedged against a woman who was trying to soothe a baby and a teenager popping gum, but it was better than the alternative.

  During the bus ride home Maite pondered whether she should call Emilio. On the one hand, he was an ex-boyfriend, and there was no need to get him involved in this. But it would be a perfect excuse to talk to him again.

  Maite’s main concern was that she would phone and have to speak to a pesky secretary. She could visualize her easily: pencil skirt, glasses, a no-nonsense attitude. Maybe it wouldn’t even be a secretary, but a personal assistant, which sounded much classier. How would she explain who she was and what she wanted to that woman? Maite supposed she could simply say she needed to speak to Emilio about a business matter, but she always got nervous when she talked on the phone, and it was impossible for her to hold a proper conversation with someone she thought was attractive.

  Had she been silly when she talked to Emilio the other night? Very likely. You always give people the wrong impression, Maite chided herself, nibbling on a nail. She knew she should stop with the chewing of her nails, and she also knew she simply needed to speak on the phone more often, and then she would become more confident. She wished she had money to get her nails done and her hair coiffed. Other women could be confident because they had good nails and good hair, and Maite couldn’t even consider getting her hair colored professionally.

  Money, money.

  The car.

  Despite her distaste for phone conversations, Maite had to dial her mother. This was one of the rare cases where it was best for her to actually maintain some distance from the person she was conversing with.

  As soon as Maite walked into her apartment, she headed for the phone. Her mother answered at the first ring, and Maite smiled. Someone had told her you could tell when someone was smiling over the phone, that it could be felt in the voice, and she was hoping to sound pleasant and polite, but she had not gotten more than a few words in before her mother interrupted her.

  “I’m watching the babies, what is it?” her mother asked.

  Maite felt like pointing out that her sister’s kids were no longer babies. They could walk around and smear people’s clothes with chocolate, after all. She contained herself, maintaining her tremulous smile.

  “Listen, Mother, I have the car at the mechanic—”

  “Again? I’ve told you a million times that you need to get rid of that piece of garbage. They took advantage of you when they sold it to you. You should have bought a sensible car, like your sister. You don’t see her trying to drive anything ostentatious.”

  “It’s not ostentatious.”

  “A Volkswagen lasts forever, Maite. You should have bought a Volkswagen.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it does. But, Mother, I need a small loan to pay off the mechanic’s bill. It’s almost paid off, except for the last bit. If the guy didn’t charge me such high interest—”

  “What about the savings box at your job? Don’t you deposit money into that?”

  “Yes, but they don’t give us the money until December, for the holidays. It’s June. You know that.”

  “Your sister never has any trouble making her payments.”

  Maite’s smile faded, her face souring. Her sister was also married and their mother watched her children for free, not to mention that Maite knew for a fact she was always buying the kids toys and clothes.

  “You spend too much on rent, that’s the real issue. Why do you need two bedrooms? You live alone. For that matter, why must you have an apartment on that street? There’re cheaper places.”

  “It’s a central location, Ma.”

  “Why do you need a car if it’s so central?”

  “You know what, I can manage,” Maite said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Her mother started to say something else, but Maite hung up. She stood in the kitchen with her hand on the phone for a couple of minutes before finally walking into the living room. Her parakeet had been happily chirping, but now that Maite approached it, the bird went quiet. The employee from the pet shop where she’d bought the parakeet had told her it could learn how to talk, but it hadn’t ever said a single word.

  She grabbed a jar with sunflower seeds and fed the bird a few of these through the bars of the cage. The cage was too small for the bird, and its door was kept closed with a bit of red string, but Maite couldn’t buy a new one.

  Maybe if she asked Diana for the money she could pay the mechanic. Maite did a couple of mental calculations, wondering how much she could push for without seeming excessive. Diana was a good friend, but most of her paycheck went toward her grandmother’s care. The old lady suffered from every infirmity known to mankind.

  Maite put the jar of sunflower seeds away and walked into the spare room that she whimsically liked to call her “atelier” when she had company. Not that she had much company. She hadn’t dated anyone in ages, though she had fantasized more than once about dressing nicely, going to a bar, and bringing a stranger home with her. On one occasion she had put on a good pair of heels and her best coat and done precisely that, but the bar in question was half empty and no man approached her. Why would they? She was nothing to look at.

  Maite grabbed an album at random and placed it on the turntable. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” began playing. Music and comic books. Why couldn’t that be life! Why was life so dull, so gray, so bereft of any surprises?

  She sat on her large chair and paged through Secret Romance, not really reading any of the speech bubbles, merely staring at the images, admiring Pablo’s chiseled jaw and Beatriz’s large, tender eyes. With Jorge Luis in his coma, far in the jungle, Pablo was making a play for Beatriz. In the last panel he held her close t
o him as she looked rapturously at the young man.

  They were beautiful, each and every one of the drawings was of an aching perfection. And the jungle was lush and exquisite. The reason she’d bought the parakeet had been this comic book. She had wanted something from the jungle, but a parrot would have been more expensive and larger. Of course, her original idea had been to visit Cuba.

  For a month or so Maite had toyed with the idea of touring the Caribbean. The island in her comic book wasn’t Cuba, it was imaginary, but it was the closest analogue she could come up with. And it wouldn’t be too expensive. They advertised trips to Cuba at a travel agency a few blocks from her workplace. She went as far as buying several guidebooks about the island and a pink bathing suit.

  It all came to nothing in the end, like all of Maite’s plans. Sure, she told herself she could save enough money if she was thrifty. But there was an unexpected expense, one thing that led to another, which eventually led to nothing.

  And now Cuba was as distant as Mars, what with her outstanding mechanic’s bill. Maite wished she could get a break just once.

  She tried to imagine the jungle and in the sky a yellow moon hanging from the heavens. But then a car honked its horn outside and the parakeet screeched, and the colors of the jungle bled from her feverish mind.

  8

  ELVIS DECIDED TO tackle the girl’s apartment first, in the company of the Antelope. El Güero wasn’t too pleased to be left behind in the car, waiting for them, but someone had to stay outside and be ready in case they needed to leave in a hurry. Besides, El Güero was too tall and burly and noticeable to sneak with him into the building. And he was sloppier. Elvis needed to get in and get out.

  Normally, Elvis would have staked out the apartment building over several days, taking time to learn what the flow of people was like. Since they didn’t have that luxury, he decided to attempt to open the building’s lock as quickly as possible. Luckily, a woman in the company of several children was coming out when Elvis and the Antelope approached the building. Elvis held the door open for her. The woman shot him a tired smile, and both Elvis and the Antelope made it in.